I caught my breath as soon as I looked at him. I had seen drawings of angels, drawings that people had done long ago in great churches in faraway countries, and he was as beautiful as any drawing I had ever seen. He was bareheaded and his hair was as curly as a statue of Cupid. He was watching the road beneath his well-shined riding boots and his perfect mouth was downturned in an endearing pout. The cast of his face, the bones, the nose, were drawn as fine as if he were a clean line on paper. But just now all the lines were downturned, the eyes with the curving line of the light brown brows, the mouth, the gaze which was down to the ground. He had not even heard Sea, he did not see me until he was nearly upon me.

‘Morning, sir,’ I said confidently. I was sure he would not have heard of me, he did not look like a young man who would be familiar with the likes of Will Tyacke. I had the old cap pulled low over my revealing mass of red hair, I had my coat jacket turned up. I knew I would pass as a lad and for some reason, I wanted to see his face upturned towards me as I sat on my horse, high above him.

He jumped at the sound of my voice, and his feet weaved in the white chalk dust. I guessed then that he had been drunk some time ago and was not yet sober. He had hazy blue eyes and I saw him screw them up as he tried to focus on me.

‘Good morning,’ he said blearily. ‘Damme, I suppose it is morning?’ He giggled slightly and his feet took two more unbidden converging steps. ‘Listen here, fellow,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Where the devil am I? D’you know? Am I far from Havering Hall, eh?’

‘I’m a stranger to these parts myself,’ I said. ‘This is the lane which leads to the village of Acre on the estate of Wideacre. Havering Hall is somewhere near here, but I am not certain of its direction.’

He put a hand on his horse’s neck to steady himself.

‘This is Acre lane?’ he said delightedly. ‘By all that’s wonderful – I believe I’ve won!’

His beaming smile was so delighted that I found I was smiling too.

‘D’you know,’ he said owlishly. ‘I bet Tommy Harrap three hundred pounds that I could get home before he could get home. And he’s not here now!’

‘Is this his home?’ I asked, bewildered.

‘No!’ the young man said impatiently. ‘Petworth! Petworth. We were both in the Brighton Belle Tavern. He took the bet. Because he had further to go than I, I let him go first. But now I’ve won! Three hundred pounds!’